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[personal profile] masserect
Summary: The prompt for this was Saber and Lancer take time off to have a sparring match. Flirting ensues, and Saber winds up straddling Lancer. Not the type to waste such a golden opportunity (seeing as Saber likes him of her own volition), Lancer suggests they take their competition to the bedroom. Whoever makes the other come first wins.
Length: 3200 words
Rating: M
Notes: There is no such thing as "too many spear jokes" in porn with a guy called "Lancer" involved.

I wanted the prose to have a kind of FS/N feel to it, but even though I'm re-reading the damn thing right now I can't really say how successful I've been. Same, sadly, goes for the voices of the characters. I actually rewatched their duels in Zero for this, but... Oh well.

"Your form is as formidable as ever, Saber."

Under a sliver moon, two warriors circle in the middle of a vast field, steel glinting in the cool light. The black dirt surrounding them has been stomped hard and flat, the grass trampled into the soil. It is the second bout this night. The previous lasted a scant minute, air and earth alike shaking as the two collided, moving faster than the human eye could follow; it ended with two simultaneous thrusts of brilliant golden metal, each halted a hair's breadth from piercing skin, a hand's breadth from piercing a heart.

Neither of them shows any sign of weariness, and their voices ring loud and clear in the still of the night.

"You will not fell me with flattery, Lancer."

The knight in blue speaks simply, refusing to acknowledge the compliment.

Truth to be told, she does not dislike the banter, nor does she scorn his admiration. Indeed, she will readily admit - privately - that she, in turn, appreciates his... form. It is a natural reaction for a warrior revelling in the beauty of facing a worthy opponent.

- Yes. It would not be inappropriate for her to acknowledge Lancer's grace and beauty. But in Saber's mind, she speaks it plainer with her blade than her voice. Every unrestrained swing, every thrust that goes without finding its mark is the highest praise. The fact that she holds nothing back honours him more than words ever could.

It is rare for her to get such an opportunity. Battling two weapons with one is rarely as difficult as it looks - even a larger, stronger opponent loses speed and power holding a full-sized weapon in a single hand; moreover, most who attempt it are more concerned with appearances than skill.

To face a man like Lancer in combat is a rare treat, in many ways.

Saber sucks her cheek in and bites it to stifle a grin - or even joyful laughter - as she adjusts her position, rotating Excalibur down and back until its point nearly scrapes the ground. It is a deceptively inviting stance, one saying her front is unguarded, blade held out of the way. He is much too good to fall for it.

- Nevertheless, Lancer takes the invitation, doing nothing to hide his own grin. Dirt explodes behind him as he kicks off and launches his attack, leading with his right hand, crimson spear poised to pierce her heart.

Saber's rising cut throws it off target, but Lancer's balance remains firm and the golden spear comes in fast - as she knew it would.

She could parry it. But rather than swing Excalibur to her right, she extends the stroke to the left and kicks forwards. Rather than deflect the shorter spear, she steps inside its reach, denying him the attack and shoving her shoulder hard into his chest.

Lancer knew she would parry Gae Dearg; she knew he would follow up with Gae Buidhe - that much was obvious. It all hinges on the next step, and a faint raise of his eyebrow tells her he did not prepare for this.

Ordinarily, it would be difficult for her to pull this off. Even if she charges her movements with prana, Lancer is larger, heavier, more stable on his feet. But he was expecting a different move, and it is just enough.

She presses the assault, launching her entire body into his, halting his charge - and Lancer topples, the red spear flying from his hand and spinning through the air.

- However, just a fall will not do. He would tumble and roll to his feet before she can blink. She must do more, and so when he falls, she follows.

Lancer grunts as she slams him into the ground, allowing a good amount of her weight - slight though it may be - to come down on his chest. But unlike Lancer, she has planned and controlled her fall and lands on her knees, straddling her opponent with her blade poised to strike.

She allows herself a small smile as she declares victory.

"The advantage is mine."

He grins, tosses his head, tries to dislodge a lock of his unruly black hair which clings sweat-dampened to his cheek.

"Would you reconsider your assessment, King of Knights?"

And then she feels it, the prick of a spear under her right arm, and though he retains only the golden spear, her armour amounts to nothing if it finds unprotected flesh.

She does not ask how he did it, how he found the time to turn his weapon even as he fell, if he somehow anticipated her attack even when she was so certain he had not or if he merely reacted faster than she thought possible; it does not matter. She remains in position, sword over his head, for some moments before she relaxes and slides the blade to the side, the flat turned against him.

"Another draw," she concludes, allowing her shoulders to slump, tension flowing from her body, making her tingle all over. "It is a poor habit for a knight." But despite that, the smile returns to her lips and she does nothing to hide it.

"An unsatisfactory conclusion," he agrees, his toothy grin softening a little to match her expression. "But a good bout."

"True." She rises on her knees, prepares to stand. "Nevertheless, I would like to settle it decisively."

"Yes." Before she can get to her feet he takes her left hand, which had rested lightly on Excalibur's pommel, and while she is still asking herself why she is allowing it, he lifts it and brushes his lips against her gauntleted knuckles. "But perhaps a different contest, this time?"

Saber's ears burn as she yanks her hand from his grasp and returns it to the hilt of her sword, clutching it before her like a talisman. She can no more mistake the meaning of his words than she could mistake the meaning of his strikes moments earlier. They are both straight and aimed at the heart of the matter.

She draws a quick breath, lips parted to scold him. It is one thing for him to admire her... form... but this is-

"Forgive my impertinence. I see I have offended you." Lancer's smile fades, but does not disappear.

Saber closes her mouth. His body rises and falls under her - so slowly, she can scarce believe they were battling mere moments ago. She seems suddenly more aware of it than she was before. Then, it was a fact. Now, it is a distraction. She still feels heat in her ears and cheeks as she speaks.

"...No. My reaction was too harsh. You are no common cur to be brushed off so callously."

The faded smile on his lips grows stronger again, but he says nothing. No, it is more appropriate to say that he does not speak. His meaning is clear, as clear as any words, as clear as his spearmanship.

Saber closes her eyes with a sigh and lets her hands relax, loosening her grip on Excalibur's hilt.

This body is not hers - not the body she was born with. But it is much like it in many ways, and while she inhabits it, she feels as it feels - and this body feels compatible with Lancer's; its hand rested well in his, brief though it was.

They fought two bouts for the joy of it. She does not dislike the idea of testing this body against his in a different way.

When she opens her eyes again, no more than a few heartbeats after closing them, Lancer is still looking up at her, and while she doesn't think his expression has changed, she also thinks it has, as if to say he holds the advantage.

She feels a wry smile coming on. "Do you think it wise to challenge me with only one spear, Lancer?"

He tilts his head to the side in response. "Have you forgotten so quickly? One spear was enough for two draws."

She laughs, soft and quiet, and stands, Excalibur in her left hand, the right held out.

Lancer takes it without a moment's hesitation.

Away from the battlefield, where the grass is lush and sways in the wind, she kneels over him again, with nothing between them. Lancer's smile is softer, almost vulnerable, as he kisses her hand once more, skin on skin.

"As to the rules," he murmurs between kisses. "I propose only one. Who first yields, loses."

"That is acceptable," she says with a nod, and feels his chest rumble under her thighs as he laughs.

"Then, would you mind turning around?"

She pulls her hand free and alters her position, facing away from the soft smile and admiring eyes, and still feels his gaze at the back of her neck.

He is free to look where he pleases, just as she is free to take in the sight. Lancer's body is familiar to her already; it could hardly be otherwise after their many clashes. However, seeing it naked before her makes her heart pound a little harder, makes her mouth feel dry. She swallows and runs her gaze hungrily over the lean, strong features before her, pale in the moonlight, a dark trail running down to a mass of thick, black curls. She enjoys the contrast between pale skin and dark hair for a moment, before she places her hands on his stomach in front of her and slowly slides them south, lowering her body as her palms and fingers glide over the hard lines of his body.

Lancer responds, his hands settling rough on her calves, then rising to her thighs and finally hips, and settle there, comfortably holding on to her body. She can tell already that he finds the sight of her pleasing, for he rises to meet her, and she wonders if he feels the same heat in his loins that she does.

Even then, she avoids the dark curls and runs her fingers down the outside of his hips, then his thighs, then up again before she stops.

Saber must admit she has little experience in such matters, but Lancer has... She cannot believe he has any reason to feel inadequate.

- It might have been easier for her if he had. She thinks so, as she finally begins to run her fingers along his shaft and feels it respond to the touch. Lancer's grip, firm on her hips, shakes just a little at that first touch, and now that he cannot see her face, there is no reason to hide her grin.

It is a fascinating thing, but she desires victory as much as anything else, and her expression is hungry for more than one reason.

She pushes down a little harder, and his body pushes back, harder and harder. It seems curious for a man like Lancer, but the texture under her fingers is soft, uncannily soft. She strokes down towards his body, and the skin glides over what lies beneath, the solid hardness that pushes back when she prods him.

Despite the differences, it seems oddly reminiscent of her own body, the way it slides back over the tip.

Finally her fingertips lie buried in the dark curls at the base of the shaft, the velvet skin pulled back underneath them, baring his full length.

There has not been a reaction since the first ripple of tension. While she explores, Lancer's hands slowly caress her back, her posterior and back down her thighs, thumbs skirting uncomfortably close/frustratingly far away from the heat between them.

"Whenever you are ready," he says, finally, and there is no urgency in his voice though she feels it in his body.

"Yes," she says, turning her head a little, not enough to truly see over her shoulder.

His thumbs stroke the insides of her thighs, and this time she is the one unable to suppress a small tremor.

- And then a small, undignified yelp as, instead of a finger, there is suddenly a tongue, hot and wet, slowly painting a wet line up, vanishing just before it reaches the crease of her thigh, leaving the wet cold on her skin.

Lancer chuckles. "What is the matter? I thought you were ready."

She does not answer and wraps her fingers fully around his shaft, allowing it to fill her hand. Thankful that her face is concealed, she grits her teeth as the hot wetness returns, now on the other side - and now it does not disappear, but strokes slowly while his hands continue to caress her. His palms knead her buttocks, his fingers trace her spine, and This is bad, she realizes - they are barely beginning and already her body seems about to melt.

Frowning, she takes a firmer grip and begins to stroke slowly up and down, from the root until her thumb strains against the ridge of the head. It's not enough, she doesn't have to be told. Lancer shows no sign of distraction. The tongue on her thigh leaves it and slides slowly in towards the centre, and she needs no more wet there, she feels it clearly already - but the tongue does not stop, and he kisses her lips as though they were a mouth, and she rocks back against it, feels her body glitter and burn, her lips parting, here to draw in a short, quick breath, there to invite that tongue to explore a little further. Her spine arcs, her head rises, her eyes seeking the sky, black and blurred.

But she can adjust to it. Biting her lip to distract herself, she forces her body down, forces her fingers to loosen their suddenly tight grip.

- No, her fingers will not suffice. Not with his tongue burning like a flame between her thighs. She must do more.

Lancer's thighs twitch as she kisses him with dry lips. Still not good; she wets them and tries again, and it works better. She cannot say she likes the taste of him, but she does not dislike it either; it is a human taste, something natural, and it makes her mouth water, makes it easier to slide her flesh against his.

Lancer's tongue is just a little unsteady as he caresses her, and her lips tighten where they lie pressed against his tip.

- She will hold nothing back. Not in battle, and not here. Her appreciation is best shown with her blade, with her body.

Saber parts her wetted lips and bows her head, and his tip is smooth and warm against her tongue.

Underneath her, his body stiffens, muscles in his chest and stomach tightening at the friction between them, and his tongue lets up for a few moments.

Bobbing her head, Saber glides her lips and tongue over his flesh, her fingers kneading and stroking.

Lancer regains his momentum, and his tongue returns between her thighs, no longer slow and lazy, but mercilessly seeking a weak spot and she opens her mouth and draws a sharp breath around his shaft as he finds it and golden brilliance to rival her holy sword flashes in her head.

The position has her at a disadvantage. So easy for him to do what he just did, or more - yet she can tell his weakest spot is facing away from her so she must strain her tongue to reach. She tilts the shaft up instead, suckles and licks at the sensitive area as her fingers gently stroke, and his legs shift, thighs rippling with tightening muscle. But his tongue remains, and he needs not do much, merely keep it there and let the movements of her treacherous body be her undoing.

- She cannot stop it from moving. Her hips want to rock back, to help that maddening tongue glide across her flesh, wants his hands to tighten on her buttocks, to push back. Her spine tingles and the sensation spreads down her arms and legs. She tastes salt, her tongue slicker than before, and she suckles greedily, head turning back and forth, tongue working tirelessly as she presses her attack from every angle.

She could lose herself in this. But in some part of her mind, she still recognizes that as defeat, and so even as her body rocks and writhes, as she rides Lancer's tongue towards oblivion, she continues to stroke with unsteady fingers, to lap up the slick beading under her tongue, wrapping her lips as tightly as she can, forcing herself to breathe through her nose as lips and tongue focus on their task.

It is not enough. The tingling along her spine fills her body, from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, and soon it is only stubbornness that keeps her from collapsing in defeat.

But even stubbornness has its limits, and she squeezes her eyes shut as the sensation that has built and built inside her begins to break free of her control. A breath, and her head is buzzing with the sensation. Another breath. Her breasts ache. Every time her nipples brush the flesh underneath her it sends a jolt through her body. A breath. Her toes curl, uncurl, curl. A breath. The grass caresses her arms and legs, swaying in a gentle wind, and her skin chimes like crystal. A breath. Her body is tense, every muscle trying to hold back what cannot be held back.

A breath -

Just as Arturia comes undone, the hands on her hips - whose hands they are, she can barely recall - tighten their grip, tighten until they bruise her skin, and she faintly tastes a salty heat across her tongue before she is lost in light.

The next thing she knows, she is on her back, the thin crescent of the moon blurry overhead, slowly fading into focus.

Once it does, she turns her head to the side.

Lancer is next to her, his chest slowly rising and falling...

- so slowly, she can scarce believe they were battling mere moments ago.

He turns to meet her gaze and slowly raises a hand, brushing his fingertips over his lips; pulls back and smiles faintly as he runs his thumb over them, gliding easily. It is not just his lips, but his chin, even his chest bears the traces, glistening with more than sweat. She mimics the gesture, fingers on lips; her mouth is wet, and her chin. She wipes it and looks at him, and as he licks his fingers clean, she does the same.

"Yet another draw," she says then, because one of them must. It is more difficult than she had anticipated. Her body tingles still, like little embers left by a raging bonfire, and seems reluctant to obey her.

"A poor habit," he muses, his faint smile remaining, "for a knight."

"Then," she continues, "are you prepared to take up arms again?"

His expression remains the same, and his answer needs no words.

It is her turn to smile, and she shakes her head, trying to clear the fuzz out of it.

"I shall hold nothing back."
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March 2016

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